


Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time

by CodeGreen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Partying, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Wes Anderon vibes, rich kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13885092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodeGreen/pseuds/CodeGreen
Summary: Charles Francis Xavier was - in no uncertain terms - a little shit. But he and the oldest Frost girl became constants in Tony's life. And now, Howard wagered, he was the best bait to lure his son back to New York.---From the PROMPT: Give me anything with Charles, Tony and Emma as hot young society darlings who have been through thick and thin, who know EVERYTHING about each other, and who fall into bed together without giving a damn about what the rest of the world thinks.Give me Charles, Tony and Emma against the world!





	Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [lachatblanche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachatblanche/pseuds/lachatblanche) in the [xmenrarepairs18](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmenrarepairs18) collection. 



"Charles, my boy. How long has it been?"

Howard patted him on the back. It was the fourth day of the fourth week of the second month. April would've provided a pleasant narrative homogeneity but Charles accepted that aesthetics simply weren't Howard Stark's priority. Wing-tipped shoes and Howard Stark were Howard Stark's priorities.

But all the fun items had been auctioned off before Charles arrived and a sparring match with an old rival could liven things up. Charles shook the older man's hand. Firm enough to remind Stark he was no loner a little boy, soft enough not to disturb the pin that held his wrist together ever since he wrecked that classic Camaro back in '88. Charles Francis Xavier was a great many things - usually spruce, often mordant, currently drunk - but he was always a gentleman. 

The eldest Stark was decidedly not a fan.

Not since stumbling upon the sight of Charles' and Tony's swimsuits thrown across the Moroccan tiles lining his pool. Their terrycloth towels soaked up spilt bottles of Polish vodka.

Boys will be boys, Howard figured. But the utter disregard for a bottle of Chopin was offensive and Charles never recovered in the eyes of Howard Stark.

Unfortunately for him, Charles would show up at Howard's front door or Tony's back door for years to come. He arrived promptly. Greeted Howard warmly. Garrulous but witty, he was - in no uncertain terms - a little shit. Still, they eventually reached a detente of sorts and both Charles and the oldest Frost girl became constants in Tony's life.

Charles rolled the ice cubes around his drink like casino craps. 

"Mister Stark, so great to see you here."

"Likewise." Stark eyed the empty vodka rocks. Perhaps the boy had grown up alright.

"Your step father tells me you've deferred Columbia. A PhD can wait, at your age. Are you taking up any philanthropic causes during your gap year?"

"At the moment, no." Charles set his spent glass on a table and plucked a champagne flute off a tray.

"Do you, Mister Stark, have a philanthropic cause of your own? You'll have to excuse my ignorance, I've never known you to be charitable."

Howard's laugh was genuine and resonant. He knew Tony was always fond of Charles's mouth. He hadn't suspected it was because of his sharp tongue. 

"Handling my charity case, Charles, is exactly what I'd like to discuss with you."

As a descriptor, "family charity case" was hardly sufficient for Tony Stark. It minimized the glee and recklessness of his profligacy. No, Tony Stark was more of a financial black hole. Presently, he was tearing his way through various cities and countries on his father's cosmically large dime. He'd become deaf to summons to return home and immune to threats of economic severance. Charles, Howard wagered, was the best bait to lure back his prodigal son.

He pulled a black card from his wallet, pulled the delicate lapel of Charles's tuxedo coat and dropped the card in an inside pocket. His fingers lingered there, just on inside pockets, long enough to let Charles know he'd spotted the slight frays in the fabric. What were frays but tatters and a little bit of time? 

Yet again, Howard Stark had Charles Xavier busted. At least this time he had his pants on. Stark ran his index finger along the polite but inescapable signals that Charles and his family hadn't bought new tuxedos in quite some time. The signals that the family wealth had been siphoned by the Marko's after his mother's divorce. The signals that maybe Charles was putting off graduate studies because he simply couldn't afford them.

Howard slipped the card into Charles's pocket and patted his chest. 

"That should see to any expenses. Bring Tony back, Charles. And later we can speak about what you hope to achieve at Columbia."

-

Of course, Charles could have told him where Tony was the night of the auction. He could have easily retrieved his phone and asked Tony to drop a pin. Could have scrolled through his most recent stories and checked the geotags. Could have just texted the fabulous vagrant.

But there was no fun in that and Charles enjoyed fun. So instead, he pocketed Howard's credit card and booked his flight. 

Tony had picked up Emma in Mexico City, as far as Charles could tell. He tried to catch them in Vail but the two had wandered east to Austin by the time his plane touched down. One legal dispensary and a ski weekend later, he was in Texas with his old friends and fellow New York escapees.

They made camp in a ranch house on a hill that overlooked downtown. The water of the infinity pool disappeared down the hill and into the brush, and his friends nearly drowned each other in a race to climb onto the deck to greet Charles.

"No! Shut up!" Emma ran through the water in slow motion, champagne spilling and swirling around her. "Charles Xavier! Darling, what are you doing here?"

"Daaahling," Charles may have exaggerated his words as he kissed her cheeks. "I've been sent by my great nemesis and now generous benefactor to track down the elusive Tony Stark."

"Dolly," Tony floated on his back. His sunglasses floated nearby. "Daddy dearest has no idea where we are. Which is weird because I left a message with Dr Farber the other week."

"It's darling, not Dolly," Charles corrected. "We're loved ones, not cloned sheep."

Emma pressed a kiss into Tony's hair. "Oh but he's my little lamby-lamb."

"Mutton to be jealous about, Charles," Tony caught him by the wrist. "Daahhling."

The water swallowed the sound of his yell. Not the neighbors would have minded, but Tony's hangover appreciated the quiet. Charles bobbed in the water. A wet mop of hair fell down over his eyes.

"Excuse me," Charles stared at Emma. He separated the hair over his eyes like heavy curtains. "You couldn't possibly swim weighed down by that princess cut anchor now could you?"

Emma wiggled her hand. Her shoulders shimmied in self satisfaction. She had grown considerably smaller, Charles noted, and somehow replaced the body weight with an engagement ring. She'd always been the most balanced of the three darlings.

"Right? His name is Sebastian. We met at Glastonbury last year. Consultant type, you know."

"Last year," Charles dropped her hand. "That's a little fast, yeah?"

"Being a little fast is Emma's specialty," Tony pursed his lips at her. She made no effort to kiss him back.

"Oh, I can't wait for you to meet him tonight," Emma inspected the diamond on her finger. 

"But first," she grabbed the bottle of champagne beside the pool. "Tell me everything we've missed in New York."

-

Preparing for a night out with the darlings was primarily a numbers game.

One Ritalin, two vodka tonics, and four outfit changes into the evening and they were nearly ready to leave the house. Charles relaxed into the full body hum that was overtaking him, jittery fingers dealing blackjack hands he played out by himself. Beside him, Emma sat and blew on her opalescent fingernails.

Tony stumbled out of the bedroom, not yet sure if he'd undershot the vodka tonics or over shot the benzos. He held up two linen shirts. 

"This," he lifted one shirt higher, "is better for dancing. Light weight. This," he rattled the other on it's hanger, "is better if we go somewhere with whiskey."

Emma couldn't be bothered to look up. She'd wedged herself between Charles and the arm of the couch. Their legs brushed against each other as they distracted themselves.

"What makes it a whiskey shirt?" She spoke in a monotone.

"Doesn't show blood stains."

Charles turned over a nine of clubs and looked up. The scar still ran down Tony's chest like a zipper and Charles couldn't stop his eyes from traveling down the jagged line. Tony had filled out since they'd last seen each other years ago in Barcelona. Layers of muscle rippled under the scar in a way they never had before.

"Right?" Emma interrupted Charles's silent stare. "He got hot!"

He shook his head. "You're disappearing and Tony's getting bigger. It's not a zero-sum game, you know."

"What about you?" Emma sat on her knees and held Charles's face in her hands. "You've gotten old."

"Thanks for that."

"No," her voice was a soft coo. "You've grown up. This five o'clock shadow is new." She traced a finger along his chin. "I like it. It's very... Charles."

Charles was aware of the slowness of his breath, of the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, of the way the mood in the room had shifted. Emma's fingers ghosted down his jaw and across his collar bone. His eyes couldn't pull themselves from the newly discovered muscles gently flexing in Tony's chest, in his shoulders. Emma's lips were soft against his cheek. She was pillowy and warm. Tony's were an assault on his jaw. The scrape of their stubble more exciting than painful. The old friends weren't a zero sum game. They were a beautifully balanced equation. 

"Oh Charles," Emma mumbled into his ear. "We've missed you so."

-

45 minutes and one vow of silence later, the darlings set to work tracking down Sebastian Shaw. The brave mask Emma wore slipped only briefly. While she stood in the dusty parking lot in front of the saloon.

"I just feel like I wore the wrong shoes." Her white heels looked nearly purple under the neon light.

"Nonsense," Charles grinned, "I'm fairly certain wearing shoes of any variety is optional at this... place."

Tony threw the doors open. "Come on, guys! There's booze up in them there hills."

Emma's horror doubled when she spotted Sebastian inside. He had elbowed his way to the front of a crowd gathered around a chicken coup. His pockets were stuffed with betting slips. The chicken strutted and nibbled on feed as strangers rattled his cage.

Sebastian yelled at the chicken between sips of his beer. Even having never met him, Charles easily spotted him in the bar. His boots were entirely unscuffed. 

He was handsome enough. Hard to tell, exactly, while he was yelling at a chicken. But his features were stark and the fit of his jeans was promising. Charles felt a pang of something, envy maybe, as Sebastian leaned down to kiss Emma and tucked his Patek Philipe back into the sleeve of his shirt.

"Poo Bear," Emma laid a hand on his chest, "you remember Tony, of course."

"Of course," Sebastian kept one arm around Emma. "Tony Stark. Always impressed to see you out and about. Standing on your own power. I suppose it is only nine."

Tony worked a kink out of his jaw. 

"Sebby. Always a pleasure," his voice was a purr. "Nice shoes, by the way."

"Fuck yooou-"

"Poo Bear, this is Charles," Emma interrupted. "Charles is a darling friend. When we were kids Charles used to know all the best places for soup dumplings and fake IDs."

"I'm also a magnet for high end prostitutes, if you get bored later. Charles. Charles Xavier."

Sebastian shook his hand. "Of the New York Xaviers?"

Charles let a smile out. He nodded to the chicken, which had refused to acknowledge his presence. "So this place is... what is this place?"

"Chicken shit bingo." Sebastian held up his handful of white tickets. "It's exactly what it sounds like. The floor has numbers on it. The chicken makes on your number, you win."

"Charming," Tony stared at the numbers under the chicken. "Charles, another round?"

Charles pointed to his full beer.

"Did that sound like a question? My mistake!" Tony cracked his palm against his forehead. "It was not. Charles, another round."

Charles followed him to a dark section along the bar.

"He's always like that," Tony said. Of the handful of friends that had met him, few came away with favorable opinions. Maximoff called him a bore. Odinson cited a "vaguely disingenuous vibe". Emma herself, Charles suspected, may have liked the man more on paper than in the flesh. And liking flesh was one of Emma's weaknesses. Charles's lips still buzzed with the memory of her interest.

He stood in front of a towering jukebox. He hugged it, cheating outwards as Tony reeled off a serious of photos.

"How is Odinson?"

"Good," Tony continued his rapid snapshots. "Lost an eye."

"My god!"

"Yeah," Tony shrugged but kept the camera focused. "Ski accident. The pole just - _schink_ \- yeah. Whatever, he still looks amazing in a speedo."

Charles stopped hugging his newly beloved jukebox and reached for Tony's phone.

"Wait! Don't post that to your regular account. Your dad could find out where you are if he thinks hard enough. And then I'm out of a job."

Tony furrowed his brow. Charles was impressed. He couldn't possibly feel his forehead at this point in the evening. He flipped through his own phone and pulled up the backup account Tony thought no one knew about.

Tony's face crinkled into a confused smile, the face of a child wondering how someone pulled a quarter from his ear.

"What the hell? This isn't me." He zoomed in with two fingers. "Magenta-something... What the super hell? Charles, this is wild!"

Tony scrolled in a fervor. He briefly wondered if this was some sort of Single White Female thing, unsure if he should be terrified or flattered. 

Charles opted for horror. The photos weren't of Tony - they were a loving recreation of him. Another man, more angular and slender, stood in the same poses and in the same cities. He even had an Emma understudy in recent pictures. Charles finished his beer.

"Christ on a cracker, who is this guy?" Tony couldn't tear his eyes away. "He's kind of hot. Fake Emma, too."

"Tony, he's stalking you! This - Magneto - character is fucking terrifying. Don't post my picture."

"God Charles, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

"Wearing someone else's face as a skin mask is the sincerest form of flattery."

Tony turned towards the crowd. "Emma!"

Now that Sebastian had stopped paying attention to her, Emma jumped at the opportunity to get away from the chicken coup. She dropped a full beer into a trashcan as if it has personally offended her.

Tony held out his phone. "You have a fan."

"Oh? Where?" she patted her hair. "I'll sign whatever."

Charles held his phone beside Tony's. Her eyes bounced from one to the other. The same Chloe handbag in Whistler. The same Alexander McQueen in San Juan Del Sur.

"This is sick! How is this legal?" She ripped the phone from Charles's hand and stomped towards Sebastian on wobbling heels. 

"Look at this shit!" She tried to shout over the squawk of the chicken. "This is unbelievable."

His flinch gave him away. The same scrunched motion of shoulders drawing together that he made when a fork squeaked against an old plate. He did his best to feign ignorance and ignore her.

Emma's sigh was a blade being unsheathed. "Dulcet tones notwithstanding, I am not speaking for my own amusement. Sebastian!"

He looked over his shoulder. "Emm, I'm busy. What is so important that you have to keep interrupting?"

She flipped through the phone with one finger, slowly, patronizing. "Well, some random plebe is recreating our lives online. Figured you might want to know. His version of you looks a little taller, though."

Sebastian squinted at the photo. He didn't remember the original they'd taken on identical bikes in Phnom Penh.

"I don't have time for this."

"How does this not concern you?!"

The crowd behind him erupted in cheers. The chicken had made it's first shitty decision of the night. Sebastian's jaw flexed.

"For the love of -," he massaged the vein along his forehead. "Look Emma, I let you play with your two cocks. Give me my one chicken."

Charles couldn't fight the blush that crept up his cheeks. They should've showered after their misadventures on the couch. Discretion was never their strong suit.

"Fuck him," she tossed the phone back to Charles. "You know? Fuck him, ultra fuck that chicken, and fuck those Insta-posers. Let's get outta here."

She reached over the bar and pushed a stranger's beer onto the ground.

"Put it on Shaw!"

-

Emma decided the best defense was a strong offense. In this case, a strong offense was clawing her way into backstage parties. The darlings were never much for celebrity, but the intersection of placement and timing meant their online imitators would struggle to recreate the same photos.

Charles argued that taking photos with celebrities didn't solve anything, but a shot and a blue pill helped him wash the worry out. They flirted with bouncers, over tipped bartenders. At one point Emma called one famous person by the name of another famous person. He called her a racist but drank the apology beer anyway.

They were a beautiful blur. They made friends. Best friends. His name was Stryker. Her name was Betsy. His name was "hey side burns" or whatever it needed to be. Charles took a right hook to the eye but didn't remember what he'd said to earn it.

The fog begins to clear when they're back at the house, dancing in the living room with Stryker and Betsy. Charles is holding a bag of frozen produce on his eye and keeps saying "give peas a chance". He's abandoning the peas and swaying with Emma, staring at the ungodly expensive piece of apology art Sebastian dragged home.

"I mean, it wasn't cheap."

"Sure," Emma's sighing into her cocktail. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."

Charles points to her ring. "It kind of does."

Emma biting the ring off her finger and spitting it into her glass. Betsy switched the music. Stryker is eyeing the pool and the sound system and the dancing friends. Tony staggering, a fistful of pills in his hand.

"Who wants a white one?" His face is flushed. Emma inspects the stash.

"Circles or tabs?"

"Tabs, mom. Jeez."

Stryker is staring with an odd expression, less drunk and more toothy than Charles remembered. 

"What's the difference?"

"Tabs are for fun." Tony remembers his posture, keeps holding out his hand. "Fun. Circles are for... not dying."

Emma's drink is empty. "The circular ones are his heart pills! And unless you've got a fucking bionic heart they'll kill you. Like - wake up dead - kill you."

Betsy's declining which seems weird but Charles examines the tab between two fingers and it doesn't immediately kill him. He's washing it down with some water and the audio around him is already swimming in his head. They're dancing. They're hitting wiffle balls off the back over the pool and towards the skyline. The air is warm and Stryker is is behind him. Helping with his batting form, and they're cheering with every wiffle ball or rock he hits off the hill.  
The blast of cool air follows Sebastian out to the back deck. The toss of his hair and wrinkles in his boxers suggest he's been home longer than Charles remembered.

"Guys. Guys! Lower it to a decibel that doesn't make my eardrums bleed."

"Fuck you," Emma's avoiding eye contact, staring up at the night sky. Charles can fix this is. Is fixing this as soon as he wrestles the slur out of his speech and taps Sebastian on the shoulder.

"Just let us live for the night, man. We'll all sleep it off and feel like shit in the morning. Back to normal. Get some ear plugs. Take an Ambien. Rub one out and call it good. Yeah?"

"Those are the pinks!" Tony bobbing in an inflatable flamingo. "Or maybe the whites. Pinks or whites!"

Betsy doesn't know who Sebastian is and doesn't care. She's alone in the hot tub. "Get in losers. We're tubbing!"

Time is entirely viscous again as Sebastian slams the sliding door behind him. Betsy is topless and Emma is snuggled against her. Charles is indoors, grabbing a pair of swim shorts. Stryker's breath is hot on his neck and his hands are strong, thumbs digging into Charles's hip bones. The bedroom carpet is soft on his back and Stryker's weight is heavy on his chest and his fingers should be rough but Charles barely feels it. He's laughing against his lips. Stryker has been trying way too hard if this is all he's after.

-

The house was quiet and the carpet had become itchy on his back. He hopped into a pair of jeans. Crushed Stryker's scribbled note into his pocket and ran a hand along the wall until he'd made his way to the living room.

Emma and Tony were so shriveled Charles could hear the dehydrated blink of their eyes. Wordless and exhausted together on the couch. They didn't sleep it off the way they used to. Back when it was partying. Before it became running. The first treacherous light of the morning slithered into the room and Charles knew he wouldn't need to convince them. It was time to go back to New York.

"What'd I miss?" He plucked a bottle of PediaLite off the table. Tony jumped to his feet.

"Jesus Christ are you ok? You look like you fell asleep in a wheat thresher."

Emma threw a tartan blanket across the couch. Charles sunk into it.

"A wheat thresher. Since when are the Starks agrarian?"

Tony rested his head on Charles's shoulder. "I read."

Charles wriggled on the couch, felt the first tiny stinging sensation against his back. Between his black eye and the sharp little scrapes Stryker left behind he was going to look like royal shit when they get back to New York. He tried not to think about where else he'll hurt later.

Tony stroked his hair. "We've been talking. About maybe heading home. I've been thinking about culinary school."

Emma nodded. "And my enterologist is there any way."

"Someone swallowed her engagement ring," Tony's laugh was hoarse. "Now she really is made out of diamonds."

Emma rubbed her eyes. "This whole domestic expat schtick was getting old before you came, Charles. New York society forgot about us. Let's go remind them who we are."  
-

Shaw was cold. Not in his traditionally unsparing manner. But physically. Charles awoke to the sight of Emma standing over his bed, Tony wrapped around him like a lonely starfish.

"He's dead." Emma hovered.

"How do you know?"

"Well," she counted on her fingers, "he's cold, he's not waking up, and he's left three of Tony's heart pills sitting on the counter."

Tony rolled over at the sound of his name.

"Shit."

Charles stretched. "Shit, indeed." He ran a hand over his face, hoping the life line running across his palm could give him a fresh idea. The morning light had already given way to the afternoon sun and the beams warmed his skin as if no one had been killed last night.

"Shitting shit it." He sat up.

Charles knew, as did Emma and Tony and anyone who may have been in their presence the last 10 years, that not all of Tony's pills were strictly legal. A good number of them were also not loosely legal even, but he kept them immaculately organized in his drug addled brain and strategically tucked them into different sections of his leather dopp kit. It had taken on a fine patina over the years and become his favorite travel accessory before it became one to murder.

Emma laid a hand flat against her stomach and tried to guess where the ring was moving through her digestive tract. She slipped into a black bathrobe and, lacking a veil, put on a pair of black sunglasses. The lenses were polarized and she looked every bit the mourner for a Blade Runner, but still in mourning nonetheless. She studied herself in the mirror and considered Blade Runner in Mourning for a future theme party. Her panic had nearly overtaken her when she awoke beside Sebastian and he refused to return the favor, but in truth they'd already grown tired of each other. She took comfort in the fact that he didn't suffer in death. Or worse, make a mess in their bed. 

The boys carried Sebastian's body out to the balcony. There, they laid him flat on the far end of a patch of Intelliturf, a non-flammable non-toxic astroturf used for xeriscaping front lawns or mini golf courses, and rolled him up like a pinwheel cake. His left foot dangled out the back and the top of his head was visible from the front and it occurred to Charles he hadn't indulged in a Little Debbie Swiss Roll since he was a child. A shame about Sebastian, too.

"You can't take him out like that."

Charles looked to Emma, aware the voice was female and not sure where else to look. Her eyes were the size of dinner plates, or more realistically pickle slices but still rather large, as she stared back at Charles. Behind him. The voice had come from the hot tub, where the soggy remnants of Betsy stirred. She'd fallen asleep the night before and by the grace of God never had the bad luck to sink into the water or ask Emma for an Ambien. A good candidate for bungee jumping, that Betsy.

"Oh good," Tony dropped the end of the grass roll containing Sebastian's legs. He stared at water bloated Betsy, irritated they'd somehow overlooked her earlier and gained an accomplice. "How long have you been there?"

"Since last night. Obviously." Betsy stood just to prove that she could. "And clearly you killed your friend for his watch."

"No," Charles let go of his end of the Sebastian sushi. "He killed himself on accident with some illegal prescriptions. But if his watch is what keeps you quiet... any suggestions?"

Betsy, seemingly unbothered that she was still topless and had nearly drowned the previous night, was full of suggestions. Tony's friends had carried his lifeless body through dozens of lobbies while well meaning concierges opened doors and promised discretion. Sebastian was still reasonably pliable. His Orlebar Brown swim trunks were still in his luggage. And dragging a friend to the beach was hardly obscene if strangers didn't know that said friend was neither a friend nor still living. With Betsy's plan hatched, an Uber was hailed.

Their driver didn't notice or didn't care despite Tony blaring Criminal on the stereo four times in a row while they made their way to the docks. He'd taken the front seat while Charles, Emma, and Betsy crammed into the back. Fiona Apple admonished them from the speakers and Sebastian laid across their laps, head lolling around with every turn. Charles squirmed, pushed Sebastian's head off his lap.

His entire body hit the floor with a thud. The driver jumped in his seat.

Emma pulled her toes out from under Sebastian's shoulders. "Oh Jesus! Gross."

"Sorry about him," Tony grinned. "Too many pills, ya know?"

The driver turned his eyes back to the road. The others reluctantly pulled Sebastian back onto their laps. Tony cackled when he started playing an album by Death Cab for Cutie.

-

"Hit me." 

Emma turned to Tony. He rubbed his temples and stared into the blue green eddy beside their rented boat. He reached under his seat and pulled out a chilled bottle of Grey Goose.

Tony would've paid good money to grant that request in the past, but when Sebastian's body disappeared into the lake he took Tony's appetite for domestic violence with him.

"Can't you fall on a steering wheel or something," he motioned towards the stern and took a pull from the bottle. A good friend would have done it. Caught her off guard. Punched her once in the eye so the bruise could turn purple and angry and provide an excuse to disavow Sebastian. She could tell the world she was never calling him again, didn't care where he went, hadn't the slightest idea where he could've run off to.

And Tony was a good friend. But he was also a newly minted murderer and his Grey Goose understood that. Charles slugged her once, the back of his hand half heartedly connecting with her cheek.

"Thank you, darling," she swiped the bottle of vodka from Tony and held it to her cheek. "Does anyone want some more, before I use it?"

She held the bottle out for the boys, both Charles and Tony refusing it. Then reared back and crushed the bottle against Betsy's skull. The thud of crunched bone and the splash of wasted vodka was sickening. The young woman crumbled, first onto one knee and then toppling into the water, end over end like a woozy slinky down marble steps.

Charles revved the motor, a classic diesel-guzzling monstrosity that made him feel like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape but with less wind-chapped cheeks. They steered the boat in small concentric circles until it was clear Betsy wasn't the floating type, then drove off to a riverside restaurant that boasted the best french fries in the city. They were just ok.

-

Charles grieved. A day for Sebastian and Betsy and William, who was simply an unlucky loose end. A few more for the vintage knit polo that was ruined when the croquet mallet connected with William's teeth. And a full week for the loss of New York and his dream of Columbia, knowing they had to lay low until speculation about Sebastian died down. 

He worked through his stages of grief quickly. He overcame the denial and bargaining stages in one conversation with Tony.

"We should give it a shot. What if we just play dumb, yeah?"

"Charles, we're not going to back." Tony rested a tablet on his knee and stared at his friend. "Do you think I can pull off a bolo tie?"

"God, no."

Still, Reykjavik was a pleasant consolation prize. Emma had a brief and torrid affair with a walking tour guide and descendent of Erik the Red. Tony got to yell the word "fjord" at strangers throughout the day. Charles wandered the city, falling in love with color-blocked row houses and women in Nasa shirts and bad art galleries each day.

His anger and depression stages passed quickly, and soon Charles and Reykjavik had accepted each other. He learned to ignore the angry texts from Howard Stark, now missing both his son and one of his credit cards longer than he'd like. Charles did his best to avoid his phone entirely. No good could come for it. Not since Imitation Tony had stopped posting recreations of their travels.

Instead, he'd branched out into original photography. His last image was simply a boat, on a dock in Austin on a sunny day. Stray pieces of glass from a broken bottle of Grey Goose glittering on a vinyl seat. He was there, Magneto, the day they'd filled Sebastian's pockets with rocks and pushed him off the starboard side. Somehow. And Charles didn't need to keep his phone nearby to know what came next. Magneto was coming to Iceland.


End file.
